Annunciation in calculation..

Words don’t come to me in elegant
strings of poetry, when what I feel is dis.
jointed.
Bursts of over used elongated
stretched out maniacal bro.ken. Down
fragments of what should be a complete train or sequence.

So instead, I am fidgety,
restless
agitated and close to morose.

Intimate, even.

Doorways become hallways, and
floors become ceilings. No difference
when sleep is all I need,
and the skirting boards bleed
voices and vices and verses…

Edgar Allan Poe
His thoughts on Jane Doe, or
Paulo on Veronica’s deciding to die.

Plath’s collection of Bell Jars.
Imogene Heap chasing cars…
all makes sense until it doesn’t.

I’m so weary.
So tired.
I ache, to just close my eyes
and fall so deeply asleep that I hit
soft grass and jazz,
not the jagged edges of epic
Nothingness that suspends me.
and holds me above complete relaxing
of mind.
Of soul.

It holds me. But not out if affection.
The 0.50 calibre sniper rifle speeds of my brain
cause pain.

Enough to hold me in that limbo
Space
Timeless Place.

And them drop me, on my face, in time
For a
New
Day.

Where we start again. Where
Words don’t come to me in elegant
strings of poetry, when what I feel is dis.
jointed.
Bursts of over used elongated
stretched out maniacal bro.ken. Down
fragments of what should be a complete train or sequence.